Suburban Cowboy
In a past life, I suspect my husband was an explorer. A passionate disciple of Stephen Ambrose and similar biographers, Bee’s read up on the exploits of such men as Magellan, Shakleton, and -- above all else -- Lewis and Clark. He was so deep into a Lewis and Clark phase that, for awhile there, I was nearly convinced in one past life he’d actually been Lewis. And Clark. A quasi-nomad as a child, he spent his boyhood trekking through the desert and the forest, finding adventure where he could. Sometimes it was deep in a canyon in Arizona; sometimes it was forced from a golf course in Connecticut. Had his life taken a different turn, maybe he would today be charting a little-known river in South America, or graphing an ice cap in Antarctica. Maybe. Of course, what with freeze-dried food and satellite phones, exploring is so much less risky than it once was. Your chances of frostbite or death-by-angry-natives are much slimmer than they used to be. And, honestly, what’s the fun in that? Si...